MIND, BODY AND SOUL

I’d worried about it. Well, you would do wouldn’t you; open heart surgery is not part of anyone’s retirement plan.

I wasn’t mentally ready. It seemed too big, too overwhelming to comprehend. I had to put myself in the hands of a room full of absolute strangers and I wasn’t ready to be that vulnerable. I’d shown my brother where my will was. You know, just in case.

I had worried that, after four or five months of minimal activity, forced on me by the heart failure that the surgery would target, my body wasn’t ready for it. My heart was knackered and surgery could only address some of the issues.

I was worried that I wasn’t in the right emotional place. Living alone in my cold house, my son having just left for the alps, my feelings of loneliness had returned. I didn’t want to do this on my own.

Two weeks after the operation I’m really not in bad shape, given this unprepossessing start.

 

MIND

I slowly become conscious of being in a bed surrounded by people. I decide that they can’t have done the operation because I can’t feel any pain and wonder what had stopped them. This notion doesn’t last long, blown away by a dull ache with occasional sharp stabs of real pain in my chest. I stand back from this pain and  decide that, if it doesn’t get any worse, I can handle it. I think back to the briefing from Nurse Jessica two days ago about what to expect when I wake up. I check off the tubes and wires in my chest, a catheter down there, oxygen in my nose, a canula in my neck. I note with gratitude that the breathing tube had been removed from my oesophagus while I was still under. I listen to my breathing for a few moments before opening my eyes.

“Welcome back! How are we doing?” says a figure by my side,

“I’m OK!” is my response. It isn’t much of one, but I have given it a lot of thought.

The call with Jessica had played a huge role in getting me to that point. Lying awake the night before surgery I had repeatedly imagined myself waking up, how it might feel, the things I would check for. I had subconsciously primed the calm, centred core of myself to wake up first, survey the scene and be prepared to calm my more panicky or depression inclined parts. It had worked. That calm centre let me manage my perception of pain too, making only occasional use of the syringe driver of painkiller but still walking around early like they wanted me to.

Two weeks later and resting up at my brother’s, I’m doing an inventory of the mental resources I have to tackle the 2/3 month recovery period. I feel pretty positive and motivated. I’ll have a cardiac rehabilitation service to give me structure, the chance to spend time in London when I get bored, and family nearby to help.

 

BODY

The morning after surgery. Eight am. There’s been such a build up to this moment. It was there in the pre-surgery phone call, there while I was being prepared for surgery, naked and vulnerable being shaved all over by a man, and the ICU team have mentioned it often.

There’s five staff in the room including the surgeon.

“OK, let’s see if you can get yourself sitting on the edge of the bed!”

They pause in the sitting position to check my blood pressure to see how strenuously my body is objecting to this clearly ridiculous venture. A few moments later, I am sat in the chair, breathing deeply but otherwise OK.

The staff, none of whom have assisted me to do this, are clearly impressed, showering praise on how strongly I’ve come out of the operation. Gravity can now drain the leftover intravenous fluids via two garden hoses (well that’s what they looked like) into the containers at my feet.

I have had a bit of a dysfunctional relationship with my body for a long time. I look at it and see the 20/30lbs I don’t need and the shrinking shoulders too, and I am wistful for the past. It’s in worse shape now, obviously.

But what it’s done this week has been rather wonderful.

It can’t be down to fitness because I had been forced by my gradual heart failure to be inactive for months. Despite this my body has somehow shown a kind of rugged resilience in the face of a major assault. My favourite comment came from a very cool young male nurse only a couple of days after the op:

”Dude, did you just have surgery or am I in the wrong damn room?”

 

SOUL

In the period before my breathlessness became debilitating, I was enjoying much of my life. I’d been to Portugal playing golf with my son and Malta playing poker. I’d even dipped a toe into dating apps for the first time, all be it unsuccessfully. I was playing elaborate kinky sessions in rental dungeons with friends and seeing the wonderful Miss Amy Hunter when my-still active submissive/masochistic side needed to be let out. I had wondered if my kinky motivation would survive the operation but I’m already confident it’s intact and ready to play.

I’d set up travel opportunities for myself: Cyprus with my brother, Bratislava for poker and a trip to a Warhammer convention in Vegas with my youngest. All had to go, but should come back next year. I desperately want to ski again and be with my eldest who is cooking in a posh chalet in my favourite ski resort. This season will probably end too early for that.

I still feel the need to find someone to share my life with, but as Portugal and Malta showed, had already stopped waiting for that to happen. I want to approach it positively and when I’m ready, rather than in desperation.

 

Mind, Body and Soul, I called this piece. Having written it and taken the time to capture my feelings after the operation, I realise that its not just the wound that’s healing well. And that’s rather wonderful.

 

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POSTSCRIPT

There is just one thing undealt with: the fact that I was badly let down by the local cardiology team. A report over two years ago contained all the key phrases: “Stenosis of a bicuspid aortic valve; left ventricle myopathy, reduced ejection fraction.” Nothing happened. Nothing happened until I booked myself into A&E at 3.30 in the morning. I’m in a much worse place than I should be and I may never fully recover. I am angry about that, and anger is such a destructive emotion.